


Antumbra

by CelestialSilences



Series: Equinox [1]
Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe- District 9, Alternate Universe- Soldiers, Chan loves his members and they love him too, Cognitive Dissonance, Dystopia, Love, M/M, Minho goes by Lee Know for a bit, OT8, Quite soft actually, This fic isn't dark whatsoever, mild violence, so so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22042288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialSilences/pseuds/CelestialSilences
Summary: Han Jisung is a soldier. He exists only when needed, fighting for the cause of his superiors with unwavering dedication and excellence. He lives to serve a purpose....Except he doesn't. Jisung is part of a system that demands competence, conformity, and obedience, but somewhere along the line he and his unit became something else. Contrary to everything they know, they live for themselves and each other.One wrong word, one misstep, and they're worse than dead. Nevertheless, the eight of them survive.(A District 9 AU)
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know, With some pre-OT8 for flavor
Series: Equinox [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1586590
Comments: 22
Kudos: 179





	Antumbra

**Author's Note:**

> (Edit 9/11/2020: this is now officially an ot8 fic unless I messed up somewhere. If I did, please please _please_ tell me and I'll fix it! Eight is fate <3 )
> 
> (this is a long introductory note, sorry in advance!)
> 
> This is a teaser for a longer story set in this same universe! Expect the first chapter of the full story eventually (late January, I hope!)
> 
> Disclaimer: I haven't researched many lore theories about Stray Kids MVs, so this won't follow any of that super closely. I use the MVs as more of an aesthetic/vague plot basis for the fic than anything else.
> 
> Also, as an explanatory note: due to a lack of windows/natural light for the characters in this universe, time works differently because there's no need to follow the day/night cycle. 00:00 in this world would be 06:00 (6AM) in ours, and 23:59 would be 17:59 (9:59 PM).
> 
> Anyways, enjoy! This fic is my baby, so I really hope you like it <3

Jisung’s first thought, always his first thought, is that it’s cold. 

He guesses it’s fitting for it to be that way- he’s essentially dying and coming back to life, after all, though at least corpses get to fester at room temperature. Jisung is so cold it hurts, and as he comes to consciousness the ice around him rapidly leaches into his bones, coats his skin with frost, stabs his lungs with every labored breath he takes. He can’t see anything, vision blurry and dull from lack of use, and his mind is slow and sluggish as it wakes up. His limbs feel like dead weight, attached to him but not connected in any meaningful way. 

Then something wraps around his wrist, so warm and soft and unlike everything else around him that the contact positively _aches_ , and Jisung is pulled forwards. He stumbles, not quite in control of his limbs yet, and collapses into something just as blissfully hot as the contact touching his wrist. 

“Hey there,” someone says, and he can feel more so than hear the light laugh they let out. He glances up, blinks a few times to try and clear his vision, and suddenly he’s looking into impossibly warm blue eyes filled with something Jisung can only describe as fierce affection. 

“Are you okay?” The man’s got a nice voice, high and mellifluous, and the smile on his lips is bright and genuine. He’s pale, and his hair is dark and curly and currently falling into his face as he supports most of Jisung’s weight. 

Slowly, jerkily, Jisung nods. He doesn’t trust his voice yet. 

The man smiles. “Good.” 

His legs are starting to feel a little less inanimate, so Jisung attempts to stand up and support his own weight. He mostly succeeds, leaning on the side of the pod he’s just been removed from to keep himself upright. He attempts to rub his eyes and winces at how cold his hands are. The room he’s in feels almost as cold as the cell, his breath coming out in puffs of crystalline vapor, so he likely won’t get to be at a truly normal temperature again for a while. 

“Can you wait there for a second, please?” the man says gently. “I just need to get everyone else-” he breaks off to turn to the cryogenic chamber next to Jisung’s, sticking his wrist up to the biometric lock and letting his cybernetics do the rest. 

Memory wipes are strange things; while they destroy every memory they touch, they often leave its foundations behind, rubble in the wake of a tsunami. Being wiped and promptly stuck into cryo makes it all worse- Jisung’s mind is operating at nowhere near its full capacity while the ice keeping his brain frozen in time thaws. The more Jisung tries to remember, though, the more he recovers, memories coming back to him in a vague, gradual haze of names and concepts and emotions. He doesn’t know specifics, most too murky and out of reach to ever be recalled again, but he doesn’t need to. 

Jisung knows the man in front of him is named Bang Chan, though he sometimes goes by Chris for reasons he can’t quite discern, and he’s Jisung’s leader. 

The part of Jisung’s mind that’s a soldier steps in immediately to demand a fierce, unquestioning obedience to his commander, but the part that holds the dregs of what memories he has left feels nothing but a warm fondness towards him. They’re close, Jisung knows, even if the only memories he has of their shared history are of the acrid scent of gunpowder, the harshness of fluorescent lights, quiet smiles flashed in dark rooms just out of sight of cameras. 

Other facts start to surface as he waits and watches. Chan is three years older than him, one of the youngest unit leaders the District has ever appointed, and quite possibly the best, though Jisung may be ever-so-slightly biased. As their leader, he’s the only member of Unit Nine allowed to stay unfrozen all of the time, as the District has constant need for his intelligence and specialized skill set. He’s generally a non-combatant, a handler instead of a soldier, and although Jisung has no specific recollection of any of the missions they’ve been on together he knows that most were successful. They had to have been, if they’re even still in a team together. 

The soldier in his mind provides him with statistics- their team, Unit Nine, has had a ninety-two percent mission success rate in its two-year run. They are the first team to have lasted so long without the removal or incapacitation of any of their members, a record they hold by a rather large margin. They serve their cause with constant integrity and excellence. If Jisung was allowed to feel pride, he’d feel a rush of it at the thought of all of their accomplishments. 

In front of him, Chan pulls another person out from their cryo cell, their body collapsing into his limply. He barely even shifts to support their weight, one hand easily finding their waist and the other delicately curling around their elbow. He holds them like one might touch a freshly-bloomed flower- carefully, gently, almost with a certain reverence.

They let out a weak groan, voice gravelly in a way that speaks to both a natural lowness and a long period of unused vocal cords, and Chan’s face lights up in a smile. “Hey,” he says. “Can you stand?”

There’s a moment where the person -Changbin, Jisung finally recalls, the name bringing to mind the metallic glint of pistols and sharp words with an undertone of affection- does nothing at all, almost appearing to be still unconscious. Then, in one easy motion he stands up, snapping into a perfect salute. “Leader,” he greets, tone entirely inflectionless. 

Chan’s smile turns just a little bit sad. “Good to see you, Changbin,” he replies, slightly more muted now, and moves to the next pod. 

Jisung wonders if he should’ve saluted, why he didn’t. The soldier in his mind hisses that _yes, he should,_ that it’s an egregious mistake not to have done so and one he’ll be punished for later, but the softer part of his consciousness, flowing languidly like honey below the sharpness at the forefront of his thoughts, tells him that Chan despises the formality of being called by his technical title and treated like an officer. 

_Why did Changbin, then?_ he asks himself, and after a few seconds his memory spits up the answer. Changbin is always slow to recover from cryo, and the same mental voice hissing at Jisung to _stand up straight_ and _scan the area for threats_ tends to wake up in his mind before anything else. 

Jisung considers talking to him, but an inexplicable yet powerful certainty that it would be a bad idea to try surfaces, so he continues to stand in front of his cryo chamber in silence, waiting. 

He watches with Changbin -well, maybe not Changbin, as he’s staring unblinkingly at the opposite wall- as Chan opens five other cryo pods. He treats every person he pulls out of it with the same gentleness and easy affection, talks to them in dulcet whispers like they’re indescribably precious. 

One boy immediately wraps Chan up in a hug upon gaining his bearings, an action he easily returns, smiling all the while. Another leaps out of the cryo pod with an enviable grace, ignoring Chan’s proffered hand and instead offering him a grin and a two-fingered salute that has Chan’s bright laughter ringing through the room. 

The following soldier trips his way out of his cell much in the same way Jisung did, letting himself be caught by Chan and greeting him with nothing more than a disoriented _hello_. When Chan opens the next tube, however, the person within falls out like an actual corpse might, almost hitting the ground before Chan manages to swoop in and grab him. Chan staggers slightly under his dead weight, but manages to scoop him up into an inelegant bridal-style carry anyways.

Rather than setting the boy down, Chan somehow manages to maneuver his wrist underneath the biometric lock on the last cryo cell and opens it up. The last boy, thankfully, doesn’t fall out of his tube, instead stumbling out unsteadily but managing to stay on his feet nevertheless. He snaps into a salute upon coming fully to consciousness, but after looking Chan up and down he breaks out into a wide smile Jisung can see all the way across the room and waves to his leader. 

The boy holds his hands out in a silent offering, and after a second of deliberation Chan carefully deposits the still-unmoving body of the first boy into his arms. From there, Chan steps into the center of the room and waits, hands clasped together and smiling ever so slightly, for Unit Nine to get their bearings. 

Jisung can’t see his teammate’s faces clearly from where he’s standing, the room too dark and their respective cryo chambers too far away from him, but vague memories of his unit start to surface as he waits for the rest of them to wake up properly. 

Names and rough identifications come first- there’s Changbin, a better shot than anyone Jisung has ever known. Felix, deadly with anything from a pair of scissors to a battleaxe so long as it’s a sharp object. Lee Know, who’s incredible at everything he tries- their ace. Hyunjin, who fights so fluidly he might as well be dancing. Seungmin -currently passed out- a veritable genius with an impeccable memory and invaluable on-the-fly-strategy skills. Jeongin, the one carrying Seungmin, who possesses a truly remarkable gift for understanding and hacking any kind of tech he comes across. 

Beyond that, though, everything is blurry, voices and faces and experiences blended together until they’re little more than a nebulous haze of laughter and firefights with no further specifics to be discerned. Hopefully more will come back with time, though Jisung has a sneaking suspicion that this is likely about as mentally coherent as he’ll get. He’s not supposed to remember things, after all- he has no need to. 

It’s only when Seungmin at last comes to a groggy alertness and Jeongin carefully helps him lean against his cryo pod that Chan at last starts to speak. 

“Hi, everyone,” he begins, and his eyes are sparkling with unabashed joy. He’s clearly missed his unit. 

“Hello,” six of them reply with varying levels of coherence. 

“Leader,” Lee Know says with a grin that suggests he knows as well as Jisung does that Chan despises the title. 

“Lee Know,” Chan says, mimicking his tone. The smile on his lips shines brighter than every light in the room put together, and the sight of it fills Jisung with some soft, saccharine emotion he can’t name. 

“It’s time for our evaluation,” Chan continues. “Does everyone remember what that entails?”

The seven of them are still for a minute, but as memories surface everyone starts to nod. Evaluation is done bi-annually, and it consists of two weeks of training and practice, followed by a mission evaluated by both Chan and District officials. The results of it determine whether or not they get to stay as a unit. No specific examples come to mind, but Jisung knows that many an agent, even entire teams, have been unceremoniously culled from their positions after lackluster evaluations. 

“Good,” Chan says, smiling. “We start training tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ll take you to the Unit Nine dorm so you can get settled.”

He doesn’t give any specific command, yet Jisung finds himself at the back of a single-file line in a few seconds anyway, obediently waiting for the cryo room door to be opened. Once they’re let out into the stark, unending white of the hallway, the same color as everything else in the District compound Jisung calls home, they walk in perfect lockstep after Chan towards their new accommodations. It’s infinitely warmer outside of the cryo room, and Jisung can’t help but relish having sensation in all of his limbs again. 

There’s another brief wait in front of the dorm room while Chan enters some kind of access code. As soon as the door opens he ushers everyone inside, then immediately darts off through a small door in the corner to do- something. 

Their dorm room consists of four sets of bunk beds, a single square table against one wall, and three chairs surrounding said table. Everything is still that same perfect shade of white- the fluorescent lights illuminating the room, the furniture, the blank, smooth surfaces of the walls, even Jisung’s uniform. There is nothing about the space that screams of any personal touch Unit Nine may have left, but even just standing in the room, Jisung is sure that this place is his home. 

While he waits for Chan to return, Jisung ends up standing next to a soft-looking boy with dark hair and a smattering of freckles across his face. _Felix_ , his mind supplies after a second, finally putting a face to the name. When Felix glances over at him for the first time, his eyes light up and he grins wide. “Jisung,” he says, crushing him in a hug. 

The contact is what seems to trigger the memories this time, as suddenly Jisung’s head is flooded with past emotions and sensations. Deep, euphoric laughter barely audible over the howl of ice-cold wind. A fierce, particular type of joy one can only experience when fighting alongside someone they care about deeply. An inexplicable twinge of loss, brief and long dulled by age, easily overwhelmed by a wave of certainty that they’ll fight and die together long before ever letting themselves be separated. 

“Felix,” he says into the other boy’s shoulder. Without realizing it, he’s started to smile. He wraps his arms around Felix’s sides and clings to him for a moment, just soaking in the affection coursing through him for his friend. Although it feels like it’s been scant minutes since he’s last seen him, Jisung is aware that it’s likely been months. It doesn’t help that the entirety of their last mission together was wiped from his head, so there’s a strange, discordant feeling that they’ve been apart for both no time at all and forever all at once. 

Still, none of that matters- they’re here now, together like they should be. They’re safe for the time being, and they can spend every spare second of the next two weeks getting to know each other all over again. 

Returning from whatever it is he’d been doing, Chan pokes his head through the doorway of what Jisung remembers to be their bathroom. “Okay,” he says, clapping his hands together. Instantly, the other seven members of Unit Nine turn to him. Changbin offers a sharp salute.

“The disruptor is on,” he announces, and for a second Jisung just stares at him in confusion, but then memories and explanations begin to surface from somewhere deep in his subconscious once again.

They’re watched constantly by District cameras- there were at least a dozen they passed just during the short walk from the cryo storage facilities to the Unit Nine dorm, and there are three visible ones in the room itself. It’s a security measure meant to both ensure their safety and prevent any possible dissenters from being allowed to fester within the compound. The disruptor, Jisung can practically hear Chan saying, loops any cameras within a small area -their dorm room, in this case- and keeps them effectively hidden from the District’s ever-watching multitude of eyes. 

Jisung isn’t quite sure why they would need to be hidden from a system designed to keep them safe, but the moment Chan says those words he can feel something in his posture unconsciously relax and a weight leave his chest, one he hadn’t even noticed until it was gone. 

Looking around, Jisung watches as something similar happens with the rest of his teammates. Hyunjin is wrapping Jeongin into a gentle hug with an impossibly affectionate look in his eyes. Lee Know throws himself onto the nearest bunk bed with clear enthusiasm, faceplanting onto the sheets and letting out a loud sigh. Seungmin is looking around their room with an expression of almost wonder, like he’s only ever seen it before in the most distant of dreams, and Changbin has the barest hint of a smile on his lips, eyes sparkling and the most alive he’s looked to date. 

“Everything should be set up for you, so feel free to get settled,” Chan continues. I’ll be back in about twenty minutes- I have to file a report.” His smile is apologetic, but there’s still an undertone of excitement to his tone that hasn’t faded since the first time Jisung heard him speak. 

He wonders how long it’s been since Chan has last seen them all. It must be miserable, having to consciously experience every day spent apart from the rest of his unit, and as Chan turns to leave a sharp pang of sympathy lodges itself in Jisung’s chest for their leader. 

When the door slides shut behind him, there’s a moment of vaguely awkward silence as the seven of them look at each other, the tension in the room so thick it’s almost choking. Without Chan’s bright, confident presence to lead the conversation, no one really knows what to say to one another. 

Then, finally, Felix speaks. “I missed you guys.”

It’s like a dam is broken- in a second, there’s a veritable uproar of noise as everyone starts talking and hugging and smiling so wide it looks painful. The eight of them are back, they’re _together_ , and even if they can barely remember their own names, let alone each other, their connection remains something implicit, unbreakable. 

When Chan comes back twenty minutes later, he’s immediately tackled into a hug by Felix and Jisung. The smile on his face is the brightest Jisung has seen yet. 

There are routines, Jisung is learning. Two kinds- the perfect, ceaseless synchronicity of the District, and the ways of Unit Nine. Despite occurring in the same spaces and with the same people, the two are so different that each might as well take place in different dimensions. Both of them, though, have a certain familiarity to them that Jisung falls into all too easily, as soon as he’s reminded that they exist at all. 

District routines are simple and omnipresent- everything in Jisung’s world is dictated by them in a smooth, impeccable fashion. He knows exactly where he’s supposed to be every single second of the day from the moment he wakes up until the moment he falls asleep. It’s a cycle Jisung knows so thoroughly that it’s instinct by now, something that survives even through the memory wipes because it’s quite literally his entire world. 

The lights come on at 00:00, and within forty-five minutes Jisung and his unit are expected to be at breakfast. They get half an hour for that, another fifteen for Chan to give them their assignments for the day, and from there they rotate from training session to meal and back again until 16:00, when the lights shut off and Jisung prepares to do the whole thing all over again. Although where Jisung is sent every day changes regularly, the amount of time he spends in each place is always the same, making it all too easy to commit the routine he’s expected to follow to memory. They aren’t allowed personal timepieces -though there is a clock in every room, counting every second with faultless accuracy- but their schedules are so forcibly ingrained in their brains that Jisung can physically feel when it’s time for him to start heading somewhere. 

Everything the District has him do is easy in its familiarity, a perk of Jisung having spent his every conscious second being trained and reconditioned to follow the same procedures and reach the same standards. He knows how to shoot a gun without being retaught, knows the exact angle he needs to hold his hand at to salute his superiors, knows that he exists to support a cause far bigger than himself. It’s an important one, something he’s honored to serve, even if he isn’t quite sure what it is. He doesn’t need to be- thinking like that is Chan’s job. 

All Jisung has to know is what to shoot and where. The District takes care of everything else; they give him life and purpose the same way they do for everyone, and for that Jisung is eternally grateful, more than happy to serve. Things could be a lot worse for him, he knows, though what _worse_ means has never quite been explained. It’s likely something too terrible to even be discussed- what would be the point of living without the support and guidance of the District, after all? Living without a purpose, without the security of the rules and expectations that keep him safe and happy- it sounds miserable, like not much of a life at all. 

Just as much of Jisung’s daily existence is similarly dictated by his unit, though Unit Nine’s routines are- different than the District’s, to say the least. If District procedures are white, perfect and stark and impeccable like the walls of the compound Jisung walks every day, then Unit Nine’s way of living is black like the darkness behind Jisung’s closed eyelids, the color of the world after lights-out. 

There’s a rhythm to them, too, but of a different kind; one that’s fluid and comfortable and as enjoyable as anything can be in Jisung’s universe.

It’s a cycle- everyone wakes up at the required time, goes about their morning routines with whispered greetings and soft smiles, as per the District standard. The cameras watch as always, red lights blinking as they count the seconds with the same ceaseless precision as the clock hung above their door. 

“Let’s go to breakfast,” someone will suggest eventually. 

“I’m ready,” someone else will say, and they’ll all move as a collective towards the door. Chan always makes sure to turn off the light in the bathroom before they leave -they’re so forgetful, leaving it on every day- and if he shuts off the disruptor while he’s in there, well, no one watching the camera feeds will be any the wiser. Their bathroom is the one place in the dorm free of cameras, but it’s much too small and its walls far too thin to allow any real reprieve from the constant surveillance. 

They go to breakfast and eat in the silent, mechanical way they’re supposed to, but when they come back, the moment the door shuts on their shared room, someone slips into the bathroom and turns back on the disruptor while everyone else waits in tense silence. The moment it’s back on, though, there’s an explosion of noise and enthusiasm. Proper good mornings are exchanged in the form of hugs and obnoxious sounds, and the eight of them talk about anything and everything that they can think of, grateful to just be existing without a camera on them for once, to be able to show each other affection so freely. 

District regulations say that they’re supposed to act cordially towards one another; they are to be gracious, polite, and respectful. That’s how Jisung treats his superior officers, how he’d treat another combat unit if he were ever to meet them. When it comes to his unit, however, those three words scarcely scratch the surface of the profound devotion he has for them- he would fight and die for any one of his teammates without a second thought. “Cordial” doesn’t begin to cover it. 

So even if Jisung’s not technically supposed to show his teammates the affection that he does -there’s no specific rule against it rattling around in his head, but he knows anything that might distract him from his purpose is a conflict of interest, and that’s one of the worst transgressions he could commit- he does it anyway, offering them as many hugs and smiles as he physically can in the mornings, because there’s no point in being willing to burn down the world for the seven of them if they don’t know it with absolute certainty. 

Eventually things do settle down, the excitement wearing off as Chan gives them their assignments, and people drift off to train or eat or work, as per their schedules. The disruptor stays on all day, until the evening. After everyone gets ready to sleep, waiting for lights-out to begin at 16:00, the last person out of their bathroom refreshes the disruptor for the night until the following morning, when the lights will blink on and the whole cycle will begin anew. 

Every night, when the seven of them troop into their dorm and congregate about twenty minutes before lights-out, Chan is waiting for them. He greets them with a smile that shines brighter than the fluorescent lights above their heads, tells them he hopes they did well today. He doesn’t get to see his unit all that often after he gives out their assignments for the day, always busy with leadership duties, but to make up for it he sleeps in the dorm with them like he’s just another soldier. 

The first two nights he slept in one of the three desk chairs they have in the room, but after Lee Know watched him wake up and crack his back a solid ten times one morning he decided to put a stop to it before their leader ended up paralyzed. Now they take turns sharing the space on their tiny bunk beds, which, despite Chan’s protests that he’s perfectly fine with the chair, quickly ends up becoming a prize to vie for rather than a responsibility to be shouldered. Chan is so _soft_ and _warm_ compared to everything else in their lives, and waking up wrapped in the arms of his leader is quite possibly the best sensation Jisung has ever had the privilege of experiencing. 

After the first couple of nights of bitter fighting over a very bemused Chan, someone came to the realization that there’s no real reason for any of them to ever be sleeping alone, so now it’s not abnormal for Felix to sleep curled up next to Changbin, or for Hyunjin to alternate between collapsing into Seungmin or Jeongin’s bunks the moment he gets back from dinner. They gravitate towards wherever feels right, even if there’s no conscious reasoning behind it, and the presence of other people is a delightfully sweet comfort they indulge in as often as they can. The District keeps the eight of them separated for so much of the time, thanks to training and their inability to be social with one another on camera, that every moment they can spend talking and touching is unimaginably precious. 

Chan really shouldn't be sleeping with them at all- he has a perfectly good room in the Team Leaders’ wing, but it’s not like anyone’s going to kick him out. Jeongin had asked why he preferred the Unit Nine dorms to his own room, once, careful to phrase his words to ensure Chan didn’t think they were trying to subtly ask him to leave, and all he’d said was, “It’s nice not to be alone,” in a tone that hinted at a loneliness more profound and sorrowful than anything Jisung will ever experience. 

It was heartbreaking to hear -they’d given him quite a few hugs that day- but even if they’d never asked, no one would have ever considered kicking Chan out of their dorm. He completes them, fills up the holes in their dynamic so easily it’s like he was made to do it. Though he might be different from them on a fundamental level, programmed for a different purpose, more useful and important than Jisung will ever be, Unit Nine is made up of eight people, not just seven. They wouldn’t function without Chan and his bright smiles and encouragement, all the little things he does to help Jisung feel alive. 

It’s been five days now since he’s woken up, and the more Jisung experiences and relearns, the stranger certain things seem to him. 

The District is benevolent and kind, according to his conditioning. They feed him, clothe him, and give him a reason to live. They’ve given him the privilege of being a part of Unit Nine, an unimaginably precious gift. He exists to serve their cause, knows only of the world they’ve given him here in the compound, and has no interest in learning about anything beyond that.

Yet whenever he wakes up in the mornings and remembers that there are cameras on him, watching his every move and protecting him against rebellion, his first reaction is a spike of anxiety in his gut instead of a wave of peace. He’s not supposed to be loud or affectionate towards his teammates, either, but not a single member of his unit has ever called anyone out for such behavior despite it being a clear violation of District etiquette regulations. 

And that’s not even including the fact that Chan sleeps in the same dorm room as them, something that, despite being quite possibly the best thing in the world -at least in Jisung’s opinion- is another egregious breach of protocol. Unit Nine is supposed to treat their leader with absolute deference, and he’s supposed to approach them at best with a casual indifference, not with the obvious affection Chan quite clearly feels for the seven of them. 

Sometimes it feels like there’s a war in his brain between the way Jisung knows things are supposed to be and the way they actually are. His conditioning tells him that all of this is _wrong_ , that Unit Nine’s behavior goes against the District and therefore should not, no, _cannot_ , exist. 

The rest of Jisung’s mind enjoys it all too much to really care. Surely, if all of this were really so wrong, the simple act of being with his unit wouldn’t feel so wonderful, so _right_. And besides, Chan seems to have no issue with any of it, and Jisung trusts Chan with his life. He would never lead them astray on anything, especially not about something as important as District protocols. Maybe Jisung’s conditioning just needs a bit of an update. 

Getting to see his unit every day is something Jisung tries to cherish as much as he can. Being conscious again is an amazing experience, one he knows is a privilege, and he does his best to appreciate every single second he’s alive and breathing and with his seven teammates. 

But unfortunately most of that time is spent sleeping or eating, doing the basics; the moment Unit Nine is deemed alert and functional in the morning, they’re shipped off to training and split from their collective. It doesn’t bother Jisung until it does- when he lands a particularly tricky shot at the firing range and he has no one to share his success with, when he forgets some piece of tactical knowledge and has no one to remind him of the answer. 

His only permanent company is the cameras that watch his every movement, tracking him wherever he goes. He tries to avoid looking at their lenses, dark and gleaming like unblinking eyes, whenever he can. Sometimes he feels like they can read his mind, can pick out the traitorous thoughts and actions of his that makes the soldier in his mind rear up in indignation. 

And there are a lot of those thoughts- too many, really. 

Privately, in the deep, dark part of his mind he hides from even himself most of the time, Jisung wishes he could see his unit a little more often, that they could talk over meals instead of just staring at each other or hold hands in the hallways while they walk from place to place. 

But Jisung isn’t allowed to wish or want. He should be -no, _is_ \- content with what he has. It’s an honor to work for the District so directly, to be a part of such a long-standing team, to have even survived for this long. He couldn't possibly ask for anything more than this. 

But sometimes, though, when Jisung sees his members, he _wants._

He doesn’t even know what it is he wants specifically, doesn’t know how to ease the fierce ache that makes itself known in his heart whenever they get a rare moment of peace. There are lots of strange feelings that muddle their interactions, leave them feeling far more profound and complicated than they should be, and although things are steadily getting better with every word exchanged, Jisung knows the eight of them still have a long way to go. 

The main problem is one entirely outside of their control- the memory wipes. Jisung is one of the luckiest ones, he’s learned, with his sound mind and faint flashes of past experiences. Jeongin forgets the names of common objects. Felix has taken to not talking at all outside of the safety of their dorm room after he’d nearly been sent to reconditioning for accidentally speaking in another language during a meal.

It’s indescribably strange to care for a person -or seven, in this case- when some mornings you wake up unable to remember their name. Chan is always incredibly gentle and reassuring whenever it happens, promising them that there’s nothing wrong with being forgetful, that it’s all just a side effect of the drugs that are coursing through their system more often than not. 

The effort is sweet, but it doesn’t make anything better, not really- no amount of kind words will erase the curl of sharp guilt Jisung feels in his stomach when Felix smiles at him in the morning and he doesn’t remember who he is at first, when Changbin leaves for target practice and Jisung briefly forgets that they’re eight rather than seven. 

But as badly off as Jisung is, he really has no room to complain. Seungmin forgets the most; some mornings, when Jeongin goes to shake him awake, he ends up pinned to the wall with Seungmin’s elbow at his throat, expression dark and gaze empty until he regains his bearings. 

Seungmin hurts the worst from it, too. Whenever he forgets something important -Changbin’s name, where he is, what he’s supposed to be doing- he’ll collapse into a ball on the nearest bed or chair, wrapping his arms up over his face like a shield and raking his hands through his hair, stifling sobs and hiccups and hissing for anyone who tries to come near him to _get away from me_ in a voice like shattered glass. 

For the first few days it’s Chan who always takes the initiative to comfort him, ignoring his empty threats and wrapping him up in hugs and soft words until he feels human again. All of them ache for their teammate, but they’re still uncertain around one another, trying to figure out where they fit in each other’s lives. Vague emotions and sensations can’t replace detailed memories in understanding themselves and each other. 

Then comes a morning where Chan leaves earlier than everyone else for some meeting, and Seungmin has his forehead pressed against the blank white walls of their dorm room as he weeps. Lee Know bumped into him today as he’d walked into their bathroom, and in less than a second Seungmin had grabbed his wrist and flipped him over, sending him sprawling to the ground. There’d been a moment where they weren’t sure if his arm had been broken or not. 

Once the haze in his eyes cleared, Seungmin cried and barricaded himself in the corner with a chair, one hand splaying over his face and the other clutching at his waist so tightly it’s surely leaving bruises.

“Seungmin?” Felix tries gently, stepping as close to him as he can get without moving the chair. Everyone else stands a few steps away, eyes wide and worried, waiting to see how they can help. “It’s okay, we know it’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it _is_ ,” Seungmin insists, fiercely rubbing his eyes. “You shouldn’t be around me- I’m dangerous.”

“We all are,” Hyunjin replies. “And we know you didn’t mean to do that. We aren’t scared of you.”

“You should be,” Seungmin says hoarsely. 

Felix glances back helplessly at the rest of the group. It’s clear this isn’t working, but they can’t just stand there and wait for Chan to show up. Lee Know had already tried his best to reassure Seungmin it was fine, waving off his profuse apologies with easy forgiveness and understanding, but all that did was succeed in making Seungmin even more frustrated. 

Jisung almost takes a step forward, but at the last second he hesitates, unsure of what to say. Seungmin isn’t a bad person, just an especially impaired victim of the same side effects they’re all fighting on the daily, but he has no idea how to convince his teammate of that truth. 

After the silence stretches on for a second too long, Hyunjin moves forward, brushing past Felix and unceremoniously shoving aside the chair blocking Seungmin off from the rest of the world. Seungmin glances up at him through watery eyes, pressing himself so harshly into the corner he might as well be trying to phase through the wall. 

He holds out a hand in front of him, fingers splayed wide to block Hyunjin’s approach. “Stop, don’t,” he begins, but all Hyunjin does is intertwine Seungmin’s extended hand in one of his, wrapping him in a tight hug with his free arm. 

There’s a moment where Seungmin completely freezes, body going rigid in Hyunjin’s hold, but he eventually melts into the other boy’s embrace, letting out a weak sob as he clutches at the sheer white fabric of Hyunjin’s uniform. 

Hyunjin whispers something in his ear, and Seungmin glances up at him, wide-eyed. He says something too quiet for anyone else to catch, but it makes Hyunjin smile ever so slightly. 

Felix’s shoulders slump in visible relief. He takes a cautious step forward, passing the now-defunct barrier of the chair, and, catching Hyunjin’s eye, asks silent permission to approach. Hyunjin nods slightly, and Felix hurries forward to pull them both into a tight embrace. 

“You are not evil,” Felix says into Seungmin’s hair, and the latter’s shoulders visibly start to shake as he tries and fails to hold in a sob, “and we will never be afraid of you.”

“We love you,” he whispers, so soft Jisung can barely make out the words, and when Hyunjin nods his agreement against Seungmin’s shoulder he finally breaks down into proper tears. The weight of it all seems to physically drag Seungmin down, and he begins to sink to the ground, but Felix catches his weight and Hyunjin loops his arms around his waist, and together they guide him over to the closest bunk bed to let him collapse properly. 

_We love you_. Love is a concept Jisung hasn’t heard or thought about since waking up. It’s not a well-defined notion in his mind, clearly something the District decided wasn’t important enough to explain to him fully, but he’s fairly sure love is the warm thing he feels in his chest when he looks at his teammates, when he hears Hyunjin laugh or sees Changbin smile. 

_Love_. The word feels important, somehow, like it has a gravity to it Jisung can’t quite grasp. And attaching it to his unit feels right, a connection just waiting to be made.

Lee Know cautiously makes his way over to their conglomerate and sinks to his knees in front of Seungmin, moving to gently take hold of the hand that isn’t tangled in Hyunjin’s. The smile Seungmin offers him is watery but genuine, and Lee Know’s answering grin is nothing short of radiant. 

“I’m so sor-” Seungmin begins, but Lee Know shakes his head. 

“No. Don’t be. I’m perfectly fine. I know you didn’t mean it, and I promise you did nothing wrong.”

Letting his eyes split shut for a long second, Seungmin takes a deep breath and releases it in a quiet sigh. When he reopens them, his gaze is clear, and there’s a softness in his expression again, like all the terror and guilt he’s been clinging to has rushed out alongside the air in his lungs. “Okay,” he says, conceding. 

“Your form was excellent, by the way,” Lee Know adds, smile shifting into something a little lighter, almost teasing. 

Seungmin lets out a startled laugh at that, the sound all the more pleasant in its contrast to everything that’s just happened. It’s the first time Jisung remembers him laughing so loud, so freely- normally Seungmin stays quiet, always watching but never quite participating out of some deep fear Jisung can’t understand. It’s nice to see him smile and laugh like this, to see him willingly accept their affection and comfort when normally he tries so hard to needlessly protect the eight of them from himself. 

There comes a loud thud from the other side of the door, and everyone in the room turns around to look at it. 

“Sorry about that, everyone,” Chan says, practically bursting in through the door and running a hand through his dark curls, “I had a briefing-”

He breaks off as he takes in the scene in front of him.

“-Oh,” he says. “Did something happen?”

Hyunjin smiles easily at him. “We took care of it.”

Jisung and his unit are meant to exist as one- a machine with eight parts, a collective mind and body and existence. They are all different people, of course, but those differences bring them closer together rather than creating walls that force them apart. They shore up each other’s weaknesses and flaws, support each other’s strengths until sometimes it really does feel like they’re one entity, like Jisung is part of the larger whole of not the District but his unit. 

He loves all of his teammates -and he’s certain that’s what it is now, had pulled Chan aside one day and asked, and the dazzling smile he’d gotten in return was an answer all its own- but some people he sometimes naturally gravitates to more often than others. It’s from some subconscious pull of whatever’s left of his memories, most likely, and it happens to everyone in their unit. It’s why Felix coaxes laughs out of Seungmin with so little effort, why Jeongin occasionally finishes Hyunjin’s sentences for him, why Jisung is always the first person to wrap Changbin and Chan in hugs whenever he gets the opportunity.

And then there’s Lee Know. 

He has eyes that sparkle like onyx when he focuses, when he tells a joke, and sometimes he looks at Jisung in a way that makes him feel an emotion he can’t describe but craves nonetheless. 

The way Jisung is pulled towards him is a different feeling than it is for everyone else- something strange, profound, and almost desperate, a last cry from some memory so long ago lost that Jisung will never be able to come anywhere close to recalling it. 

Whatever the reason behind it, though, the two of them fit together in the strangest of ways. Sometimes Jisung will open his mouth to ask for something- the rice at dinner, his uniform jacket in the mornings- and before he’s said two words Lee Know will have presented it to him almost subconsciously, sometimes entirely focused on something else all the while. They don’t see each other often during the day, but at dinner Jisung always finds a way to sit next to Lee Know, and if they sit together so closely that their shoulders brush whenever one of them does just about anything, well, the tables are a little small for eight people. 

And he wants things, too. It emboldens Jisung to know that someone like Lee Know, who’s skillful and deadly and by every standard the perfect soldier, has the same flaws that he does. Like maybe it isn’t so wrong. 

He told Jisung last night, not two minutes before lights-out as they’d curled up next to each other in bed, that he wants to learn his real name. Memory wipes are indiscriminate things; Jisung knows his, but Lee Know’s was lost along with every memory he had of the time before he worked for the District. Unnecessary things, the District would say.

Jisung hopes he’ll remember it anyway. 

By this point, things have settled into a sort of status quo, the two cycles that dominate Jisung’s life having evened out so they operate in perfect sync. Training is going as well as Jisung knew it would- they’re not considered one of the District’s best units for nothing, after all. 

On their eighth day of consciousness, the second they’re awake they’re called into a briefing room as a team to receive their mission for evaluation. It’s the first official activity they’ve done all together since being unfrozen, and the halls feel a little less cold and austere when there are eight people walking through them instead of one. 

They enter the blank white room, just the same as any other, to find one chair in front of one side of a large table in the center of the room. Across from it are three people, each with the same close-cropped hair and perfectly straight posture. District officials, Jisung’s mind supplies, and instantly he’s saluting his superiors along with the rest of his unit. 

Chan is staring at the single chair with a look in his eyes that Jisung has never seen before. He turns around briefly to address his unit. “Stand in front of the door until I can fix this,” he murmurs, and the seven of them obediently split in half and stand on either side of the door, in perfect parade rest and staring blankly forward. 

“Leader Bang,” one of the officials speaks. 

“Sirs,” Chan replies obediently. 

“Please,” he continues, and his voice is the most entirely inflectionless thing Jisung has ever heard. “Have a seat.”

Chan twitches slightly, and Jisung can see him physically bite back a response. “Thank you, but I’ll stand with my unit,” he says at last, taking a step back to join the rest of Unit Nine. 

Jisung feels a bubble of fierce affection rise up in his chest and does what he can to shove it down for now. He can appreciate Chan later, when their every move isn’t being scrutinized by people so far above them in rank that even their leader is entirely powerless by comparison. 

One of the other officials nudges the first one with his elbow. “You were right,” he mutters, sounding almost amused, and the look in his eyes send shivers down Jisung’s spine. 

The third seems to share none of her fellow officials’ mirth. “We’ve selected a location for your evaluation,” she says, and rattles off an address that means nothing to Jisung but to which Chan nods at. 

“Your job will be to search and clear the facility,” she continues. “Seize anything that may be important, and remove any resistance you may encounter. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Chan replies immediately, saluting her. 

“Schematics of the building will be sent to you promptly,” she adds, and Chan dips his head in understanding. 

The first official looks ready to start talking again, but the second one beats him to it. 

“Can we get them out of here for the rest of this?” he says, pointing at the rest of Unit Nine. “I don’t like the way that one is looking at me.” He points to someone down the line -Lee Know or Felix or Changbin, Jisung can’t see- and lets out a nervous-sounding laugh. 

“Of course,” Chan says, and Jisung can see the way his jaw clenches as he turns to face his unit. “Please go wait outside,” he says, something profoundly apologetic swirling in his eyes, and they do, filing out through the door with utter indifference.

Jisung isn’t allowed to so much as look at the rest of his unit while they wait, so he simply stews in his worry for them as he stares vacantly at the colorless wall across from him. He hopes whoever the official pointed out won’t get in trouble. He hopes Chan will be okay, that he’ll hold his tongue at least until they get back to their dorm. 

He’s never seen his leader so close to losing his composure, and although Jisung’s memory is hardly reliable, something tells him that even in the past Chan’s never done anything quite like this before. He treats the officials above him with the same deference Jisung does, because that’s the expectation- stepping out of line would get Chan killed. The District has no tolerance for dissent, not when those in power are put there for their competence and knowledge and are therefore not to be questioned. 

When the door to the briefing room finally opens, it takes every bit of Jisung’s self-control not to immediately turn and look at his leader. Chan breezes by him after a second, already stalking off down the hallway, and the rest of Unit Nine silently moves to line up and follow him in perfect formation. 

Chan’s eyes are positively crackling with fury, and he storms down the hallway with his hands curled tightly into fists. It’s terrifying to witness- even the mere thought of the sweet, ever-smiling Chan being angry is almost laughable, yet here he is, clearly infuriated by how the District officials had acted towards the rest of his unit. 

Jisung wants to tell him that it doesn’t matter how other people treat him, that he’s been conditioned not to care, but he doesn’t think that would help the situation. The fact that he doesn’t mind does nothing to change the fact that Chan very clearly does. 

When they’re back at their dorm room, Chan takes a little longer than usual refreshing the disruptor -they’d been in such a rush in the morning that no one had bothered to turn it off- and when he walks back out from the bathroom the fury in his gaze has drained away, leaving behind only the faint vestiges of something deeply sorrowful swimming in his eyes. 

“I’m so sorry they treat you like that,” he says, collapsing onto the closest bed. “You don’t deserve it, but they think you’re not people, so they-”

“It’s alright,” Felix tells him before he can finish. He and Jisung make the briefest second of eye contact, and suddenly Chan is being wrapped up in the center of a three-person hug. “We don’t mind.”

“You _should_ ,” Chan says, but there’s a hint of his usual smile on his face that sets Jisung’s heart at ease. “You’re people, not just soldiers.”

Jisung doesn’t quite understand what he’s trying to say -of course he’s a person, but he exists to be a soldier; those things aren’t mutually exclusive- but he’s saved from having to answer his leader by Seungmin appearing and wrapping his arms around the three of them. From there Hyunjin joins in, then Lee Know, then everyone else, until they’re just a vague conglomerate of smiles and crushed body parts and love. 

There’s a moment wherein everyone just enjoys the comfort of the contact, broken when Chan sighs from his place in the center of their hug. 

“They told me something else, while you were outside,” he begins, clearly anxious about whatever it is, and the seven of them wait respectfully for him to continue. 

“They’re thinking about lessening our numbers,” Chan says at last, voice so heavy with pain Jisung wonders how he can force the words out at all. 

“What?”

“Why?”

Chan sighs. “They’re worried we’re too close,” is all he says, voice bitter. “That if it comes down to it, we’ll put each other ahead of the District.”

Jisung doesn’t get it. What’s wrong with them liking each other? They’re a combat unit, so being able to trust each other and work together well is essential. How could they possibly be “too close” for the District’s standards?

“What happens to us if they do?” Hyunjin asks. Unit Nine wouldn’t be Unit Nine without any one of its members- of that, Jisung is certain. They wouldn’t be able to fight together, to work together so fluidly and easily it’s like they share one mind. They’d lose all effectiveness as a Unit, and that’s surely the opposite of what the District wants. 

“Nothing, because it won’t happen,” Chan answers, entirely certain. “We’ll pass evaluation just fine.”

Despite his leader’s reassurance, the threat sticks with Jisung for hours, stubbornly lodged in his brain and digging in with sharp claws of fear at the worst of times. Every time he takes a shot at the firing range, he can’t help but wonder what would happen if he missed- would he be culled on the spot, or would they wait until after the mission? Would his teammates even find out he was gone before the District wiped every trace of his memory from their heads?

The rest of the day is unpleasant, to say the least, and it’s a true miracle that Jisung’s training performance doesn’t suffer from the stress and anxiety festering in the back of his mind. He manages to hide it all only because his conditioning is so ingrained in his being that he could likely do just about anything the District asked of him in his sleep by now. 

Dinner is a quiet affair, as it always is with the watchful not-eyes of the District trained on them, but there’s an almost-tension to the air, one that whispers of important things to come. Or maybe it’s just Jisung- everyone else seems fine, exchanging subtle, bright-eyed glances while they eat their food with robotic efficiency. 

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t equally terrified of the thought of losing any one of his teammates. The threat has always been there, of course, the standard consequence for an unsatisfactory evaluation, but he knows Unit Nine has never been so close to being culled before. He can’t decide what would be worse- having to carry the grief of losing one of his teammates, or having their memory ripped from his mind altogether. 

That night, Jisung watches restlessly as Chan emerges from the bathroom after refreshing the disruptor. He takes a moment to just stand in the door’s threshold, eyes sweeping over his team over and over again. Jisung watches his lips move ever so slightly, almost as if he’s counting from one to eight again and again and again, desperate to find reassurance that every one of them is _there_ and _safe_.

Jisung is sleeping next to Felix tonight, who has one leg casually thrown over his and is facing the wall with the rest of his body. He keeps shifting around on his pillow- a sign that he’s worried, too, since Felix normally sleeps like the dead. All around him, the rest of Unit Nine seems nowhere close to sleep- there’s no sound of even breathing filtering through the room, just shuffling and the occasional frustrated sigh from one of the other bunks. 

Despite the fact that it’s clear no one will be sleeping tonight, still no one breaks the silence, choosing instead to stubbornly try and ignore the stress looming over them. 

Then, finally, Chan says something from where he’s decided to curl up next to Hyunjin across the room. “We only have a week left.”

Despite his volume being scarcely above a whisper, Chan’s words are as loud as a shout in the dead quiet of the dorm room. 

“That’s a lot of time left to train,” Changbin says from somewhere in the dark.

“We’ll be just fine for evaluation,” Jeongin adds. 

Felix sits up in bed, and, finally admitting to himself that they’re not going to be going to sleep anytime soon, Jisung does the same, leaning against the wall behind his bed and ignoring the immediate ache that forms in his neck from the awkward angle. As his eyes slowly adjust to the dark, he picks out where Chan and Hyunjin’s bed is, can see two silhouettes sitting up in it. 

“I know we will. It’s not that,” Chan says, sounding almost frustrated, and there’s a pregnant pause before he speaks again. 

“I just wish- I wish they wouldn’t freeze you guys all the time,” Chan admits to the dark.

Jisung’s first rational thought, bubbling up immediately after the streak of white hot-panic that rips through his veins at the thought of his leader so openly _wanting_ _something_ , is that it’s a silly thing to wish for. Jisung has no need to be conscious when he’s not being used. He’s nothing like Chan, who always has something to plan and needs to stay up-to-date with the world around him to fulfill his role; staying frozen lets Jisung keep his muscle memory, his strength, and his youth for far longer than a natural human ever could, and that’s all he’s good for. 

He doesn’t say any of that, though, because he gets the distinct feeling that hearing it would make Chan sad. Instead he makes what he hopes is eye contact with Hyunjin across the room, tries to convey his worry. Hyunjin moves to wrap an arm around Chan’s shoulders, contact which he easily leans into. 

There’s a long moment of silence in the room. The “that’s against the rules” in everyone's mind goes unspoken- Chan knows just as well as they do that what he’s just said would warrant a harsh punishment if heard by the wrong people. 

Then, finally, Lee Know of all people speaks, voice so soft and uncertain it’s barely audible. “I want to know my real name.”

“Wait, you don’t?” Chan asks. He sounds strangely confused, considering it’s an easily-discernible fact that Lee Know’s name isn’t his real one. 

“No,” Lee Know says quietly, almost ashamed of the admission. “I haven’t since the first memory wipe.”

“I can find it out for you,” Chan says, and suddenly he’s sitting up in bed, eyes practically sparkling in the dark. “I thought you just liked that name better than your real one, but I’ve definitely seen your old name before-”

“You- really?” Lee Know asks, and his voice is the most vulnerable Jisung’s ever heard it. “You’d do that?” 

Chan looks at him, indescribably affectionate, and smiles. “Of course.”

“Don’t bother if it’ll get you in trouble,” Lee Know tells him, but there’s a fragile, poorly-hidden note of hope in his voice. “It’s not that important.”

“Of course it is, it’s something you want,” Chan replies easily, and Jisung gapes at him because that simple sentence goes against everything he’s ever been taught by the District. They’re given everything they could ever need- wanting anything is considered ungrateful, a flaw in one’s character, something to be ashamed of. 

From the dumbfounded look on Lee Know’s face, he’s thinking the same thing. 

“Chan,” Changbin says, voice low and worried, “are you sure you should be saying things like that?” The barely-visible expression on his face is conflicted, uncertain, but not openly condemning. He’s probably just as afraid for Chan’s safety as Jisung is- while he has no recollection of anyone ever going against the District, he knows death would be the lightest of punishments Chan could receive if his disloyalty were to be discovered. 

“There’s a lot you don’t see when you’re frozen all the time,” Chan says, and suddenly he sounds impossibly tired. “The District-” he breaks off and sighs. “You don’t get it- you’re not supposed to. But this isn’t right. None of it is.”

Jisung stares at Chan blankly in the dark. He’s got the vague idea that Chan just said something very important -world-shattering, even- but he’s right; Jisung can’t comprehend it. All he knows is tied up in protocol and skill, in serving his cause and following his orders to the letter. Even the very concept of right and wrong is beyond him- some vague, nebulous thing that has no bearing on his day-to-day life. People like Chan are meant to do the thinking, and Jisung is meant to follow them blindly.

For the first time, though, that lack of mental autonomy is a frustrating limitation rather than a fact of life, one Jisung doesn’t like having to deal with. Maybe this isn’t right, whatever that means. 

When he finally sleeps that night, it’s long after everyone else’s breathing has evened out. Jisung isn’t sure of what he wants, but he’s starting to think it might not be this.

“Minho,” Chan announces, loud and excited, as he bursts into their shared room. 

“Who?” Seungmin asks from where he’s reading a book and looking profoundly bored. Jisung empathizes- either books are the most uninteresting thing ever conceived, or the District has a truly terrible selection in their tiny library. The books are technically meant to be entertainment for team leaders, but Seungmin has a knack for casual thievery, and as long as he does a good job hiding the books no one’s going to come looking for him.

It’s odd to think about how many things they do every day that are against the rules. A room search would probably get every single one of them sent to reconditioning on the spot. Jisung has no idea how the system can be so strict, yet all eight of them casually subvert it almost constantly. He has no idea why he can’t bring himself to care. 

“Minho’s real name is Minho,” Chan says, fast and excited. His eyes are practically sparkling. 

Jisung squints at him. “What?”

Chan pauses for a moment, seeming to realize what he said made no sense, and shakes his head. “Lee Know,” he corrects. “His real name is Minho.”

Jisung stares at him for a second. “Minho,” he says slowly, trying out the name. It fits, somehow- it already feels better than Lee Know despite Jisung having just learnt it. 

“I’m trying to find him- does anyone know where he went?” Chan asks. 

“He’s sparring with Changbin,” Seungmin supplies. This hour is one of the few moments of free time they sometimes get, thrown into their schedules when the District has nowhere else to send them, and Minho likes to use his spare time to practice hand-to-hand combat. It’s relaxing, he says, which is something that’s never made sense to Jisung. Combat is all action and adrenaline to him- a thrill like no other, but certainly not _relaxing_. 

“We should go surprise them!” Jisung suggests. He wonders how Minho will take it- will his eyes light up in that way that makes Jisung’s heart sing? Will he smile? Laugh? Whatever his reaction may be, Jisung can’t wait to see it. 

He’s buzzing with anticipation his whole way down to the sparring room, and several times he has to remind himself to keep his steps steady and uniform as he walks behind Chan. If it were up to Jisung, he’d be running the whole way there. 

The sparring room is a wide-open space littered with practice mats and racks filled with just about every melee weapon imaginable, all deadly-sharp and gleaming under hanging fluorescent lights. 

Changbin and Minho are easy to find, as they’re the only two people in the room -no other combat unit is currently unfrozen- and they’re sparring on the mat at its very center. They fight so fluidly it looks almost choreographed, each smoothly blocking the other’s hits and striking back with motions so quick they’re practically a blur even to Jisung’s trained eyes. 

When Minho finally dispatches Changbin with a smooth palm strike to the face and a sweep-kick, immediately moving to help his teammate up a second later, Chan and Jisung approach the mat. Chan is softly applauding, looking inexplicably proud of his unit’s skill despite the fact that excelling in combat is quite literally their sole reason for existing. 

“Leader, Jisung,” Minho and Changbin greet respectfully, mindful of the multitude of cameras scattered around the room. They look exhausted but pleased with themselves in the way only a good fight can make a person feel, eyes alight with competition and leftover adrenaline. Careful to keep his voice low, Minho smirks at Chan. “Here to spar with us?”

Chan barely manages to contain his laugh. “Not exactly,” he says. “We need to talk to you about something.”

“Just me?” Minho asks, confused. 

“Changbin can come too,” Chan offers, but Changbin shakes his head. 

“I need to do some target practice before my next official training session,” he explains. “You can fill me in after dinner about whatever’s going on.”

“Good luck,” Minho says, and with a brief inclination of his head Changbin disappears off to the firing range. 

They practically drag Minho back to their room under the vague pretense of a “tactical briefing,” for the cameras, an excuse that luckily goes unchallenged by passerby as they move through the hallways. Jisung can barely stay in step with Minho, two paces behind Chan as protocol dictates, due to the excitement singing in his bones. 

Seungmin glances up at them as they enter, smiling, and it’s the brightest expression Jisung has seen on him to date. Jisung can feel a matching grin lighting up his face in response already. 

Minho just watches them with visible confusion, a touch of wariness in his expression. “Did something happen?” he asks slowly. 

“Chan found out your real name!” Jisung bursts out, too excited to let Chan spill the news himself. 

Minho’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open ever so slightly. “You- what?” He says faintly. 

“Your name,” Chan repeats gently, joy glimmering in his eyes. “I found it in your records. It’s Minho.”

 _Minho_ , Minho mouths, eyes still locked on Chan almost fearfully, like he’s waiting for him to say he’s joking. 

“It’s a nice name,” Seungmin offers. “Easier to remember than Lee Know.”

Jisung can’t help but snort at that -easy to remember means less than nothing to them- but Minho’s face lights up at the compliment. 

“My name is Minho,” he says, half to himself, and suddenly he’s bounding over to Chan and tackling him in a hug. 

“Thank you,” he says, softly at first, and then he says it again and again until the word barely has meaning anymore. 

Chan’s eyes are so bright they’re practically glowing, and he hugs Minho back so tightly they look like they’re clinging to each other for dear life. “You’re welcome,” he replies when Minho finally quiets. “Minho.”

Minho buries his head in Chan’s shoulder, but Jisung can still see the ear-to-ear smile stretching across his face. 

“I’m Minho,” he says again, and suddenly he’s laughing, the sound bright and giddy and musical and quite possibly the best thing Jisung has ever heard. 

That evening, as they’re washing up and getting ready for lights-out, Jisung brushes past Minho as he moves to collapse in his bed -well, it’s supposed to be Jeongin’s, but they’re long past any kind of specific claim on beds by now- and taps his teammate’s shoulder.

“Goodnight, Minho,” he whispers, and the memory of the grin that lights up Minho’s face stays even through his dreams. 

The day of evaluation passes by so quickly it feels like it’s a fraction of its normal length, like all of the clocks in the compound have been set to tick faster than usual without Jisung’s noticing. There’s no training or practice today, just an hours-long final briefing wherein they run over mission protocol so many times Jisung is pretty sure the steps of the plan will stay ingrained in his head even through his next memory wipe. 

Before Jisung knows it, it’s 14:00, and he’s marching in perfect step with the rest of his unit towards the compound’s garage. It’s a place he visits rarely, and one he’s had yet to see since being unfrozen, but the room becomes familiar the instant he steps foot into its wide expanse. 

The garage has the highest ceiling Jisung has seen in a room to date, and although everything is still bright white the whole space feels infinitely less claustrophobic than the rest of the compound. Vehicles are neatly lined up by type and size throughout the garage, wide aisles separating rows with dozens of vehicles of all kinds, from sleek motorcycles to hulking tanks. As Jisung passes a hole in the line, likely where the van they’ll be using tonight had once been parked, he even spots a dark gray bus with the strangest shape he’s ever seen a vehicle have, all round and bulky and decidedly non-aerodynamic. 

Their van is sleek and black, the color an impossibly sharp contrast to the white all around them. The eight of them obediently file in through the back doors into the windowless space within, furnished with two metallic benches on each wall and with a computer hookup station adjacent to both. There’s no need for Chan to drive -the District uses computers for that to eliminate the possibility of human error- so he sits with his unit, leaning against Felix as much as he’s allowed to as soon as they’re all seated on the uncomfortable metal benches. 

There’s one camera in the van, a small white streak in a sea of black, and as the doors of the swing shut behind them, its blinking red light briefly becomes the only light source in the van before an overhead bulb flickers to life and illuminates their faces in pallid fluorescence. The van jerks to life with a rumble and they start to move, leaving the District compound and heading towards their mission location. 

Tonight, Unit Nine is wearing something other than their standard uniforms- dark body armor and tactical gear designed to keep them alive through just about anything. The only time they’re allowed to wear black is on missions. Otherwise, their uniforms are white, always white, bright and sterile and always the same. It’s oddly enjoyable to wear something different for once, despite the fact that the armor Jisung is currently wearing is irritatingly bulky and stiff compared to the uniform he wears every day. 

There are also earpieces in their ears, inactive for the moment, so Chan can communicate with them. His primary job on missions, besides handling and advising the seven of them while they work, is to manage comm channels and keep them as streamlined and efficient as possible. Generally, this means keeping only one or two members assigned the same area or task connected in a single channel in order to keep their comm lines quiet and clean. While it certainly helps Jisung focus, it’s also always a scary prospect to be separated from the rest of his unit, no matter how artificial the isolation may be. 

The other feature that allows Chan to watch over them on missions is the trackers. Embedded in each of their wrists, they provide a constantly-updating marker of each member of Unit Nine’s location, as well as some basic information about their vitals that Chan is scarily good at analyzing. Jisung has a vague memory of being shot in the arm once -one he’d forgotten all about until he’d stretched wrong one day and his arm had given an ominous-sounding crack- and an even vaguer recollection of Chan asking him if was okay before he’d even reported the injury. While Chan might not be physically with them on their missions, it certainly can feel like he’s right beside them at times, a presence Jisung takes great comfort in. 

The presence of the camera in the van ensures that their ride is entirely silent, so Jisung entertains himself by counting each blink of the camera’s light, and, when that gets boring -he gets to one thousand, four hundred and seven before he gives up- he shoots subtle glances at each of his members, watching the way they sit with perfectly straight posture on the benches of the van. Poor Felix looks like he might be getting motion sick, and Jisung can see Chan’s eyes skipping across the faces of each of his members over and over again, like he’s worried they might disappear were he to look away for too long. 

Minho shifts next to him, and Jisung tilts his head ever so slightly to catch sight of his teammate in his peripherals. 

His eyes are glimmering even in the dull, ugly light of the van, and he looks as perpetually at ease as he always does. From the point of contact where their arms are brushing, Jisung can feel him shift around in his seat a little bit, moving away from Jisung and then closer. 

Then there’s a hand circling around his wrist, touch impossibly gentle and almost ticklish, carefully crawling further down his arm until suddenly there are fingers cautiously intertwined with his. Jisung freezes completely until Minho’s hand stops moving, now firmly linked with his in the most flagrant display of physical affection they’ve ever shown in front of a camera. 

Suddenly Jisung is more nervous than he’s ever been on a mission, worse than even when he’s being told if he’s being culled or not after each mission. White-hot sparks of anxiety shoot through his veins, sharp and scorching and leaving nothing but a hollow numbness in their wake. If the camera were to catch them, they’d be killed- of that, Jisung is sure. 

But then Minho squeezes his hand, and everything is a little more okay. 

He squeezes back lightly, the motion awkward and unfamiliar, and tries to glance at Minho inconspicuously. All he can see is the edge of Minho’s face in his peripherals, but even the perfectly blank expression on his face is enough to settle Jisung’s nerves further. 

There’s no way the camera can see their hands from here, he tells himself. And they’ll let go the moment the van stops. They’re as safe as possibly they can be, and the comfort of the contact is worth the risk- Jisung finally feels like his heart isn’t about to explode from how fast it’s beating.

As Jisung stares steadily in front of him, desperately trying to appear as normal as he can, Chan’s ever-shifting gaze skips from Jeongin’s face to his, then immediately down to his and Minho’s linked hands. 

Something in Jisung’s gut drops in fierce anxiety, but when he makes cautious eye contact with his leader, there’s a look in Chan’s eyes that, while unidentifiable to Jisung, certainly isn’t angry or condemning. Jisung blinks, and suddenly Chan is looking elsewhere. 

They hold hands for the rest of the ride, an untold length of time due to the monotony of it all. Changbin is so still Jisung has to stare at him for a second just to make sure he’s actually breathing. There’s an oh-so-faint tremor in Hyunjin’s hands, neatly folded in his lap as he stares at the blinking light of the camera with a burning intensity. Jeongin’s gaze is trained to the floor as if he’s expecting it to fall out from under them. 

Eventually the van takes a few tight turns in quick succession -Felix really does look ready to vomit then- and slows to a stop. A second later, its engine shudders to a stop.

When the van’s ignition is killed, everything in it goes dark. Chan’s computer systems, not connected to the vehicle in any way, remain powered, but anything electric attached to the van stops working. It’s a measure to ensure the vehicle doesn’t stick out in any way it’s not supposed to, and that hackers can’t identify and somehow attack it. Thus, the only light in the van is the neon blue glow of Chan’s just-activated computer screens, painting all of their faces pallid and strange, casting shadows that stretch across their faces at odd angles and make them seem not quite human in the near-dark. 

The lack of power also means there’s a two-minute window wherein there are no cameras or mics surveilling them, and Chan uses that window to the fullest. 

Reaching into his standard-issue black jacket, he pulls out a tiny metal box that jingles as it moves. Jisung stares at it curiously. They’ve already put on their mics and armed themselves to the teeth with guns and blades- what else could they possibly need?

He pulls from the box what appears to be a lumpy tangle of metal with no visible purpose. As Jisung and the rest of his unit watches with visible confusion as he begins to untangle it, separating loops of chain with objects hanging from them. 

A new word struggles to the forefront of Jisung’s consciousness, contextless and unfamiliar- Chan has a container full of _necklaces_. 

“What are those?” Changbin asks, face screwed up in clear bewilderment. 

“Good luck charms,” Chan replies easily, like he’s answered the question a million times before. 

Hyunjin, sitting closest to Chan, is presented a necklace that has a thin, metallic object on the end that Jisung eventually identifies as a key, the kind that people once used before the District made biometric locks standard. Then he moves on to Jeongin, to Changbin, and so on down the line until everyone in the van has a necklace to call their own. 

Jisung has no recollection of seeing anyone wear jewelry before, but as he watches his members put on the necklaces, glinting in the dark, he finds that they might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

His own is certainly pretty, the edges of the key curly and rounded in a way almost nothing is in the District compound, where sharp angles and spartan practicality reign supreme. Before putting it on Jisung can’t help but hold the necklace up to the light, marveling at the way it glitters even in the low light of the van. 

As he slips the necklace around his neck, the key finding a home right over his heart, Jisung realizes how strange it is to wear something that serves no reasonable purpose. Jewelry won’t help him survive in battle, won’t keep him connected to his team, but he can’t imagine taking it off either way. 

He’s wearing it because he likes it, he decides. That’s the purpose it serves- it reminds him of Chan and his unit, and it’s beautiful. Unconsciously, he reaches up and brushes the key with his fingertips, and a wave of some bright, nameless emotion courses through him. The idea of wearing something just for personal pleasure is so bizarre and extraordinary that he can’t help but enjoy the feeling, the way joy bubbles up in his chest every time he so much as thinks about it.

“Okay,” Chan says, eyes sweeping around the van to make eye contact with each and every one of them. “We can do this.”

The seven of them nod, suddenly serious. They’ll be fine- this is what they exist to do, after all. They wouldn’t have made it this far if they weren’t good at it. 

“Good luck, all of you,” Chan tells them. “I l-” he shakes his head. “Be safe.” 

He reaches up and presses a button on his personal comm, activating their Unit’s District-moderated voice channels and effectively ending any chance for further personal conversation. After a quick mic check, they line up in standard formation, and the back door of the van swings open. 

“See you in two hours,” Seungmin says, moving to vault out of the back of the van. 

The rest of them follow, and as Jisung leaps out of the van and into the city, one hand finds the key around his neck and squeezes it. There’s no nervousness anymore, not as instinct and protocol set in so firmly that Jisung barely has to even think about where he’s going or what he’s supposed to do tonight. 

They’re going to pass this evaluation and stay together if it kills him. 

  
  


The facility looks a lot like something of the District’s. It’s white- overwhelmingly, chokingly white, its walls a sight more familiar to Jisung than his own face. The similarity makes sense, considering that the missions they’re sent on for evaluations are frequently staged. It’s hard to drum up crime on-demand, apparently, even for the District. This likely is in fact some District building they’d cleaned out for a few hours. 

(Jisung wonders, briefly, where the people he’s going to be expected to kill are coming from. Something tells him that it’s not a question he should be asking, and definitely not one he wants to know the answer to.)

The first difference Jisung picks up on is that there’s blood on the walls here, and that’s definitely not something he sees back at headquarters. It’s a rusty red that suggests it’s long-dried and streaking across one long hallway, just a little too high up on the wall to make sense. Against the bleached color of the walls it practically glows, and Jisung can’t help but stare, transfixed. 

“How-” Minho whispers next to him, reaching out almost as if to brush the stain with one gloved hand. They’re partners for tonight, tasked with searching half of the building’s east wing together.

“No idea,” Jisung replies softly. Something about its placement seems ominous, a warning that Jisung’s gut can’t quite ignore. 

“What’s wrong?” Chan asks instantly, ever alert. 

Minho glances at him. Ever so slightly Jising shakes his head. It’s probably not important.

“Nothing,” Minho says, voice steady. “Just some weird bloodstains.”

They continue down the hallway and turn a corner, and out of nowhere there are two people clad entirely in black rushing them. He and Minho are pushed to opposite sides of the room by their respective assailants, and Jisung slashes at him with the knife in his right hand. The person blocks it with their forearm and strikes, so quick Jisung can’t quite dodge in time. 

He’s slammed into the wall behind him so hard something in his back pops and he swears he can feel the surface give underneath him. He grits his teeth as he holds up a forearm to block the arm that’s swung at his face. He tries for a punch to his attacker’s stomach only to have his strike stopped all too easily and returned with twice as much force. 

Jisung chokes on the air rushing out of his chest and tears spring to his eyes, sharp and burning as the pain and lack of oxygen hits harder than the punch itself. He ducks away from another punch and manages a decent hit to his opponent’s throat with the hilt of his knife, causing them to let out a truly disgusting wheeze and stumble back slightly. Sensing an opportunity, Jisung starts to lunge forward with his knife outstretched, ready to finish his opponent-

“Down!” Mihno shouts from across the hall, and Jisung is ducking before he even properly processes the word. He ends up awkwardly sliding out of his assailant’s clutches, boots skidding across the floor as the person swipes at him and misses completely. 

There’s the faint _pop_ of a silencer, and suddenly Jisung’s assailant is slumping over onto the wall and collapsing onto his outstretched leg, now entirely dead weight. He shoves the corpse off of him and onto the floor without fanfare. 

“Thanks,” Jisung huffs, and Minho nods at him from where he’s busy kicking the body of his own attacker, crimson blood leaking from the fresh bullet hole in their head, against the wall with the toe of his boot. He would’ve been able to finish them off just fine, but they’re not here for personal glory or kill counts- their job is to finish their objectives and get out as quickly as they can. 

“Anytime.”

“Both of you are okay, right?” Chan asks, and although his voice is as smooth and steady as it always is there’s a just-barely discernible undernote of tension to it. He’s worried for them. 

“Killed two,” Minho reports, as protocol dictates. 

“No injuries on either of us,” Jisung adds, swivelling his back to test it. It doesn’t hurt when he moves, so it seems he’s escaped permanent injury this time. 

“Okay, good,” Chan says, all previous strain in his voice gone. 

“Hey, what’s that?” Minho asks, pointing to something behind Jisung’s head. He spins around a little too quickly, an aftereffect of the adrenaline still coursing through his system, and realizes there’s a door behind him that definitely wasn’t there a second ago.

“What’s what?” Chan asks instantly. 

“There’s a door that just appeared,” Jisung says. It’s a simple sliding door, entirely unremarkable and unlabelled, but he knows for a fact that this hallway used to be just blank, unending whiteness. 

There’s a second of silence over the comms. 

“Go sweep it,” Chan directs at last. “But be careful.”

Suddenly there’s a crackle of static over the comm, and the sound of something that might have been a voice, but it’s gone too quickly for Jisung to discern anything from it. Probably just a mistake Chan made with the voice channels. 

Minho moves to the door, yanks it open without fanfare, and it slides into the wall easily. 

The hallway it leads into is absolutely pitch black, which is never a good sign. 

Still, it’s their job to walk into it fearlessly and tackle whatever’s on the other side. They have Chan, their weapons, and each other, and that’s really all they could ever need. 

“I’ll take point,” Jisung says, and Minho looks for a second like he might protest, but he dips his head and acquiesces. 

“Alright.”

They don’t have any sort of portable light source on them -an oversight of the District? A challenge?- so Jisung just holds his hands out in front of him and walks, moving slowly and carefully to listen for movement as best as he can. The silence in the hallway is absolute save for the faint echo of his and Minho’s footsteps and his own breathing. 

They take a sharp turn to the right, and all of a sudden the hallway is opening up to a new wing of the building, one that’s clearly no longer meant for human habitation. It’s the picture of an abandoned building- exposed, busted fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling, tufted remains of shredded carpet clinging to scuffed stone flooring, trash and debris strewn across the floor. There are no windows despite there being massive frames just about everywhere, leaving only shards of glass scattered on the floor and icy wind whistling through the open frames. 

“Where- are we?” Jisung has been subjected to dozens of hours of mission briefings over the course of the past week where they’d looked at maps of every aspect the compound for so long he could swear it was burnt into his eyelids by the time they were done, but this place was nowhere on any of them- the walls here are gray, for one thing. No District building would ever have walls of any color other than the purest white. 

Still, the District doesn’t make mistakes- if this hallway is here, it’s meant to be found and searched. “Ch-leader,” Jisung says into his comm, voice low as he glances around the hallway to look for signs of life. He needs to know what to do here. 

Silence is the only reply he receives, and he shoots Minho a look of creeping worry that’s returned in kind. 

“Leader,” Minho echoes, “this is urgent.”

Still nothing, even from the District officials listening in on their comm channel. Is the signal being jammed?

Something is definitely wrong. The District might throw just about anything at them in terms of combat and location in an evaluation, but units are never meant to be separated from their leader, and they’re definitely not meant to be tested on such an unthinkable scenario. Unit Nine is made up of seven soldiers and one handler; the seven of them aren’t meant to be able to strategize, to think on their feet in any situation outside of the heat of combat. They have no need to, not when Chan is always there to guide them. 

But he’s not here now, and they need to do _something_ , even if it’s just following protocol like usual. 

“We should search the area,” Jisung says quietly, meeting Minho’s eyes again. They’re bright and calm in the dark, gaze confident and ever-steady in the way Minho always seems to be. 

“Sounds good,” Minho replies. “Whenever you want to move out.” 

They start to take slow, cautious steps through the hallway, their footsteps echoing ever so slightly in the high-ceilinged space. The wind picks up as they pass by more windows, each casting dull, rectangular beams of light across the stone floor. Jisung barely registers the feeling of the icy air against his face- if there’s one thing he’s used to, it’s the cold. Minho stays a steady presence behind him, pistol held tightly in his hands and pointed towards the stone floor as he watches their six. 

When they reach the corner of the hallway, there’s an especially large window frame there, jagged glass shards clinging to its edges. 

For a moment Jisung freezes completely. There are no windows in District headquarters, nor were there any in the van, and Jisung doesn’t recall having ever seen the sky before. Logically, he knows he has -this is hardly his first mission, after all, and not all of them were in District buildings- but looking up at the inky darkness of the sky, flecked with the slightest pinpricks of what Jisung identifies after a second as being stars, the all-consuming wonder that fills him is so intense he might as well have been blind every second of his life before this one. 

A glance to the left reveals a hanging orb in the sky the color of steel, flecked with darker patches and shining its cool luminescence in through the window. It’s so breathtakingly beautiful that Jisung forgets to think, to even wonder what it’s called. 

“The moon,” Minho whispers reverently from next to him, pressing up so close against the window frame he’s practically leaning out of it, one hand gripping the corner of the wall to ensure he won’t fall out entirely. His mouth is slightly open in wonder, eyes glowing brighter than even the moon in the sky, and Jisung decides that Minho is the most beautiful being he’s ever seen, that every gorgeous thing Jisung has been introduced to tonight pales in comparison to him. 

“I’ve never seen it before,” Minho says slowly, distantly. “It’s so beautiful.”

“I know,” Jisung says, moving to stand next to him. The words seem empty in the face of an experience as profound and extraordinary as this one, but from the way Minho turns and smiles at him, soft and glowing with quiet euphoria, Jisung knows he understands all of the things he can’t quite articulate.

“Why can’t we see this all the time?” Minho asks, and Jisung waits for the inevitable spike of anxiety in his gut as that always comes when someone says something that’s out of line with District ideals, but it never comes. This is the one place they can have a conversation like this, entirely free from prying eyes. The only time they’ve ever truly been alone. 

“I don’t know,” Jisung replies. “I wish we could.” He’s never spoken a want of his aloud before, and it’s strangely freeing to say it, like it’s become more permanent, more tangible. He wishes he could see the moon every day. He wishes he could see Minho like this every day. He wishes he could show the moon to the rest of his members and watch their eyes light up at the sight of it. 

He and Minho step away from the window after a moment, icy wind still slicing at every trace of exposed skin, and for a minute they just stare at one another. There’s a strange sort of intimacy in the air, like they’ve travelled to another world that only the two of them are a part of. 

Unit Nine’s outfits for missions are black like the color of pen ink, the metal of their rifles. It’s the only time they’re allowed to wear the color; otherwise, everything they wear is blindingly, sickeningly _white_. Jisung is aware that there are other colors in the spectrum, knows in theory that they could also be used in clothing, but he’s never worn anything that was not in those two shades of pristine light and dark. 

But now there’s red on Minho’s vest, right in the center. A dot of neon like the flash of alarm bells, like freshly-spilt blood. For a split second, an eternity, Jisung stares at it, entirely mesmerized, wondering what it would be like to see him entirely swathed in the color. 

(He’d probably be beautiful.)

Then he’s calling out “sniper!” and shoving Minho to the ground. Minho falls without a sound, only reaching out to cling to Jisung and pull him down with him. 

They end up sprawled over one another, with Jisung collapsed half across Minho’s chest and their faces a little too close together. There is no awkwardness between them- there’s no time for trivial things like emotions in the heat of battle. There’s only room for adrenaline and protocol, for both of their minds to immediately start following the exact same thought pattern. 

_Stay low and out of sight of the sniper. Outgunning them will be impossible, so the two of them need to stay down here and wait for a bit, then crawl their way back to the main facility. If all else fails, just run for it._

Jisung meets Minho’s eyes, and the latter nods slightly. Message sent, message received. Perks of being conditioned the exact same way. 

For now, though, they can’t move, can’t talk. And that means a five-minute staring contest in what might be the most uncomfortable position Jisung’s ever had to lay in. 

Minho’s eyes are still somehow gleaming even in the dark, and Jisung can’t help but stare. Minho looks right back, lips curved up in faint amusement. He always looks like that- confident, poised, like he’s two steps ahead of everyone else and just waiting for them to catch up. He’s as radiant as the moon. 

And suddenly, without him consciously meaning to, Jisung moves forward until his lips are brushing Minho’s, and his brain scatters into a mess of _what’s this called again_ and _this feels really nice_ and _we can’t do this we’ll get shot_ -

In the next five seconds, several things happen at once- Jisung remembers that what he’s doing is called kissing, decides that he quite likes it and would frankly be willing to be shot for it, and somewhere in all of that he ends up gently cupping Minho’s face in both hands. 

Minho just kisses right back, hands gently curled around Jisung’s forearms. The butt of the pistol he’s carrying in his right hand digs into Jisung’s arm. 

Jisung has no idea what’s happening, but it feels so inexplicably _familiar_ and _right_ that he can’t bring himself to stop. It’s only when he feels a little faint from lack of oxygen that he breaks away from Minho and rests his forehead against the other’s. The only sound he can hear is their breathing, slightly more labored than usual, and the rush of his heartbeat in his own ears. 

“The sniper’s probably moved on,” Minho says, and for once his voice is ever-so-slightly unsteady. A strange, unnamable emotion rises up in Jisung’s chest, fierce and enjoyable despite his inability to understand or name it. 

“Let’s go back, then,” he says. 

Minho takes point this time, at Jisung’s aggressively-hand-gestured insistence. They crawl slowly across the floor until they almost reach the entrance of the hallway, wherein Jisung decides that they’re far enough away from the window to be safe. Minho hops to his feet in one easy motion and holds out a hand to pull Jisung up. 

Suddenly there are footsteps coming from the hallway, and Minho readies his gun. Jisung presses himself flat against the wall of the room’s threshold, eyes straining to pick out the person approaching in the dark. 

“Minho? Jisung? There are no comms in here, are you guys oka-”

Hyunjin gapes at the room he’s found himself in, eyes darting around the space and drinking in every possible detail. His mouth falls open in shock and his eyes are the widest Jisung’s ever seen them. The gun Minho’s pointing at his head doesn’t even seem to register for him. 

“What- is this place?” he asks slowly. Then he seems to catch sight of the moon, because all of a sudden he’s stumbling over to the window frame and stretching so far out of it he looks like he’s going to jump out and try to fly. “Wow,” he breathes, and Jisung can’t help but smile. 

“Hyunjin.” Minho’s voice is sharp but not unkind as he holsters his gun. “Is there anyone else with you?”

Hyunjin doesn’t react for a second, still staring transfixed at the moon, but then he shakes his head jerkily. “No one. We don’t have long before everyone else will come, though. Chan’s really worried.”

“We were just leaving,” Jisung says. “This place is empty, and there’s a sniper somewhere out there.”

Hyunjin turns to look at him in surprise. “A sniper? Are you guys okay?” 

“Just fine,” Jisung confirms. “Let’s move out.”

“And Hyunjin,” Minho says. The other turns to meet his eyes curiously, and Minho holds up a finger in front of his lips. “Okay?”

Hyunjin nods fiercely. “Of course.” 

(When they make their way through the pitch-black of the hallway, Minho’s hand finds his and squeezes it. Suddenly the dark all around them doesn’t seem so oppressive anymore.)

The second the door swings open to let them back into the compound, Changbin rounds the corner, talking quickly and quietly into his comm. Upon seeing them, his whole posture relaxes. “Leader, I found them,” he says, and Jisung hears the words echoed in his comm, a sign that he’s back to being observed by the District. 

“Thank goodness,” Chan says, and Jisung feels relief sink deep into his bones. He hadn’t realized how nerve-wracking it had been to be cut off from Chan until now, when it feels like a missing part of him was just returned. “Report, all three of you.”

There’s no hesitation from Minho. “It was an empty room, likely used for storage of some kind,” he says. “Abandoned, now.”

“No kills or casualties,” Jisung adds.

“No tech to destroy or seize,” Hyunjin finishes. 

“Everyone else has finished their objectives,” Changbin informs them. “We’re clear for extraction as soon as we can get to the exit.”

“Do one last sweep, make sure you didn’t miss anything,” Chan says. “Otherwise you’re good to leave like Changbin said.”

Jisung obediently glances up and down the hallways as protocol dictates, but all he sees as he looks at the walls is the glow of the moon and the stars against the night sky. He’s never going to get to see the sight again, and a tiny part of him begs for him to turn back, to grab his members’ hands and pull them with him through that dark hallway and out into the silvery glow of the moonlight. 

It’s a mental voice he’s never heard before, and rather than shout or whisper it sings. It sounds a little like the intoxicatingly smooth richness of Minho’s voice, like the bright quality that shines in Chan’s tone when he laughs. It’s his favorite one yet. 

They slip out through a back entrance of the compound, and as the rest of Unit Nine congregates and hops into the van single-file, Jisung catches a glimpse of the inky sky again, speckled with stars and somehow even more beautiful than he’d remembered. He and Minho’s hands brush. For a split second, things are as close to perfect as they’ve ever been. 

Then they’re back on camera, their every movement watched and judged once more, and the eight of them sit in perfect silence. Jisung keeps his gaze fixed firmly on the floor, like just looking at the cameras might cause them to pick up on the multitude of rules he’s broken tonight.

An untold amount of time through the ride Chan gets a call on his comm, and five minutes later he’s smiling brightly at them. “We passed,” he says, and there’s no small amount of relief in his voice. “Everyone scored perfectly. We’re clear for the next six months.”

The smiles they offer Chan in response are small and cautious, mindful of the cameras on them, but as Jisung glances around the van he can see nothing but genuine happiness in his members’ eyes. They get to stay together for a little while longer. 

A warmth spreads through Jisung’s bones at the thought. No matter what comes next, at least he’ll get to face it with his unit by his side. 

They get fifteen minutes to change out of their uniforms back at headquarters before they’ll be frozen again. In reality, that means five to change, one to wait for the disruptor, and ten to say their goodbyes, to try to hug each other and Chan tight enough that they won’t forget the feeling even through the memory wipe.

The second Jisung is back in his sickeningly white uniform, Chan grabs him by the wrist and pulls him into their bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind them. A few of their teammates shoot them curious glances -Minho sends him a worried look- but Chan doesn’t seem bothered.

The moment they’re alone, he leans against the bathroom door, a measure to keep other people out rather than Jisung in, and looks him up and down, expression calculating. Jisung wonders if he’s in trouble. Whatever it is, it can’t be too bad, considering he’s not currently in reconditioning or dead. He’s nervous either way- the number of rules he’s broken tonight is likely some kind of record. 

“Back there, in the side room,” Chan says, voice unreadable, and Jisung’s eyes snap up to look at him properly. “You and Minho kissed.”

It’s actually quite impressive that Chan figured that out just by the way they’d sounded and looked heading back to the van, but Jisung is too busy panicking to register that. He can’t breathe. What will Chan do to him? He’s broken a rule so implicit that it’s not even technically a rule; he wasn’t supposed to get this far in the first place. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, hangs his head. “I’m so sorry, I just- please don’t submit me for reconditioning, I’ll never do it again-”

Gently, delicately, Chan cups his chin, and with one hand shifts Jisung’s head up so he’s looking his leader in the eyes. His expression isn’t angry, isn’t disappointed- no, it’s inexplicably, impossibly fond. 

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “It’s against the rules, but it’s not wrong.”

Jisung has no idea what that means, but he seems to be safe for now, so he relaxes slightly. “Thank you.”

“Just be discreet, okay?” Chan tells him. “If you get caught by anyone else, I can’t help you.”

Jisung nods vigorously. He'd do just about anything to keep what he has with Minho, but he’d also like very much not to die, so staying subtle in the future will be essential. 

(He’s trying his absolute hardest not to think about the fact that he’ll forget all about this in about twenty minutes. Some things stick even through the wipes, after all- this has to. He can’t bear the thought of forgetting the way Minho’s eyes had glowed in the moonlight, the way his lips had tasted.)

“Of course,” he says. “No one will know.”

Chan huffs a laugh at his words, oddly enough. “You two really are made for each other,” he murmurs, clearly to himself, but Jisung’s always had excellent hearing. 

“What?”

Chan blinks at him in surprise. “This-” He pauses, heaves a sigh that’s far too exhausted for someone so young, and Jisung wonders for the millionth time about what happens between missions, about all the things that have been unceremoniously ripped from his memories but remain lodged in Chan’s. “This isn’t the first time this has happened.”

Jisung’s jaw drops. “ _What?_ ” It’s like he’s been dunked into cold water- there are a billion thoughts and questions racing through his mind, but he’s so shocked he can’t actually articulate any of them. He and Minho have kissed before. Minho has looked at him with that expression of open, pure affection that’s now seared into Jisung’s brain before. 

And he doesn’t remember any of it. 

“It’s at least the fourth time I’ve found you kissing, but you two are idiots and keep getting caught,” Chan explains, and beneath the exasperation in his voice there’s nothing but warm fondness. “So you get forced into reconditioning and wiped. And then you fall in love all over again.”

“But isn’t reconditioning permanent? How do we-?” All of this makes zero sense. 

Chan scoffs. “If it was, do you really think you’d be acting the way you are?”

“What’s wrong with the way I act?” Jisung is a more than capable soldier, one who follows the District’s every command. Sure, he’s a little loud for District tastes, and Unit Nine breaks some of the rules pretty regularly, but there’s nothing _wrong_ with any of that. They’re still loyal to the District cause. 

...Right?

“Absolutely nothing,” Chan tells him, strangely fierce, and it’s clear there’s a deeper meaning to his words than Jisung can understand. “It’s just not how the District wants you to be.”

For a moment Jisung just stares at him, uncomprehending, and then it hits him- the soldier voice in his head is the District’s conditioning. They want him to be no better than a drone, used to fight battles for as long as he’s useful. He’s not meant to be able to laugh, to kiss Minho and call him beautiful, to grin at the way Chan’s smiles make his eyes sparkle like stars. He’s not even supposed to know what stars _are_. He’s supposed to be a soldier, and soldiers need nothing more than orders in their head and a gun at their hip. 

And that’s still who Jisung is at his core, isn’t he? Personality and identity are not one and the same, after all, and while Jisung might have plenty of the former, the latter is entirely tied up in the District and his purpose for existing. He’s a soldier because he’s never been able to consider any other option in his life; serving the District is all he knows, all he ever thought he needed to know. But now-

Who is he if not a soldier, a puppet of the District? 

He can’t even think about a question like that. It’s so big, so existentially important that Jisung has no idea how to begin going about solving it. 

“How did I get like this, then?” Jisung asks. Everyone in Unit Nine is wonderfully alive and bright in a way they absolutely should not be. The District shouldn’t be ignoring this either, not with the way they record their every blink outside of the dorm room. 

“I let you be yourselves when I can,” Chan explains. “As I soon as I was put in charge of this unit I let you live as you wanted whenever you weren’t frozen. It took a while, but eventually it stuck even through the memory wipes.”

The implications of that sentence are so vast and complicated Jisung can’t even start to process them. All he understands is that Chan is the reason he’s here like this, that he’s been protecting him and every other member of Unit Nine since they’ve been together. Letting them be human. 

A wave of gratitude wells up so strongly in him that Jisung can’t speak through it; there’s a lump in his throat and a sudden certainty that speaking every word he knows wouldn’t be nearly enough to express the way he feels. 

Then he realizes just as quickly that none of it matters. This may have happened once before or a million times, and none of it did anything, none of it changed anything. He’s about to be wiped and put back in his cryo cell, to be reset and left to wait for the next time he’ll get to see everyone again. He’ll learn the same things all over again only to forget them the moment his job is done. 

“I’m going to forget this conversation, aren’t I?” Jisung asks. Somehow, he’s hoping that Chan will tell him something he doesn't already know -he’s learned the truth now, there has to be _something_ more than this- but deep down he knows the answer. 

Chan looks at him for a long moment. “I can try to keep it from happening,” he says, and Jisung’s heart stutters in his chest in shock and delight. “But no guarantees.” 

Jisung smiles at him. “Thank you.” He pulls his leader into the tightest hug he can, feels Chan wheeze a little from the force of his grip, and rests his head on his shoulder. 

“Everyone else is probably waiting to say goodbye to you,” he says after a moment. 

“We don’t have long until we’re supposed to be at the cryo room anyway,” Chan says, gently extracting himself from Jisung’s grip. There’s a second of quiet, and then, “I’ll miss you.”

There is the weight of a thousand lonely days in his voice, the pain of missing someone who can never quite reciprocate or understand the feeling. 

Jisung doesn’t know how to make him feel better, how to ease that ache, so he just smiles at Chan as brightly as he can. “I’ll miss you more.”

“Impossible,” Chan says, but he’s giggling as he turns to open the door, and Jisung counts it as a victory more meaningful than any battle he’s ever won. 

The walk down to the cryo room is silent, as per District regulation. They move in organized ranks: a line of three and four with Chan centered at their head. Each time they pass an officer in the halls, that person receives eight salutes from the members of Unit Nine, all perfectly synchronized.

Jisung walks next to Felix, and every time they turn a corner they make subtle eye contact. Neither of their faces so much as twitch each time they meet eyes, but Jisung feels a pleasant, comfortable warmth bloom in his chest whenever it happens. 

Chan doesn’t go into the cryo room with them, as per protocol. He instead speaks casually to the door guard while the seven of them file in, moving to stand in front of their cells in parade rest. The last Jisung sees of his leader is the way his eyes dart across all of their faces like he’s trying to ingrain them to memory as much as he can, as if he’s the one who’s about to have his memory wiped.

When Chan meets eyes with Jisung, the last in line, he mouths something at him as the door closes. Jisung can only make out two-thirds of it, but something in his heart eases even as he stares straight ahead and the waiting med techs begin to do their work. He accepts the memory-wiping IV in his arm with the cool apathy of a perfect soldier and moves to climb into his cryo pod. 

The final thing he sees before the cell door hisses shut is Minho, turning on his heel to get into his own tube. They make eye contact from across the room, somehow, and Minho’s lips quirk up for a fraction of a second. Thankfully, the pod shuts right after that, and Jisung is left alone in the dimly lit tube to smile so wide his cheeks hurt.

(Even if he loses everything from these past two weeks, he hopes he’ll keep Minho’s real name. He knows everything else will fall into place.)

Jisung counts the seconds until his vision turns dark with something approaching excitement. The cold starts to leach into his bones again, icy-sharp and deadening all at once, but he can’t bring himself to care.

In just a few short moments, after all, he’ll get to see his unit again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Does Jisung lose his memories? Does anything change for Unit Nine? Who knows? (I do, but you'll have to wait and see :P)
> 
> ((update: the first chapter of the sequel is up!! Go read it <3 ))
> 
> Have questions about this AU? please ask! I have so many different headcanons for this universe and I'm not sure all of them will end up getting explained in the larger fic ^^"
> 
> Please let me know if you enjoyed! Comments make my day :)
> 
> And come say hi! I'd love to have more Stay Twitter friends to talk to <3  
> [Twitter ](https://twitter.com/CelSilences)  
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